Addiction comes in many forms
by sittingsippingtea
Summary: TW: Eating disorders and drug references. Sherlock was actually pretty desperate to get someone to move in with him. First person, Sherlock's POV.


It started out alright. People told me I looked beautiful. I figured out how to interact with them and politely disagree. I stopped eating after 7 pm during cases. That wasn't anorexia it was common sense. That's what I told myself anyway. I was hoping I could turn of the stupid part of me that was so demanding. I was in control. I said so, rocking back and forth folded with my knees at my chest in the empty kitchen. Cases gave me control. I knew what to do. People said I started to act strange around them. I wrote it off as my status as a sociopath.

So now I'm here. In the morgue. Just me and the dead. It's going to be okay. I'm not envious of them. I'm just... a detective. Thinking about life is part of the job. I set up the microscope and put in a slide. I want to see the nucleus in the cell. Molly will probably say that's a defense mechanism because I'm afraid of my metaphorical nucleus. It's not fear. Distaste, if anything. I want to stop thinking about it all the time.

I began to doubt the diagnosis of sociopath/psychopathy. Anyone my charming brother sent would be biased, and only too ready to suggest 'safer living situations.' Living alone was good. It could be as quiet as I wanted. I saw their points about the impulsivity sociopaths and psychopaths tend to display perhaps not being to conducive to a 'healthy environment'. I think about myself all the time. Egocentricism is a symptom after all. I hate it. I hate that I don't feel strongly about it, if I'm to fit the diagnosis. Which I will. I certainly don't fit my own standards for certain things.

Molly came in and tried to make me drink some vile fructose beverage of vegetative origin. I think I distracted her. The liquid will poison me. I'll drown if I drink that. It's been what two, three days? Starvation takes at least a month to cause death. I'm fine. This will help me concentrate. Look away from the bottle, idiot. "Just coffee thanks," I say. I can do coffee. It won't reach into my veins and coat them with sugar. I acknowledge that is impossible, but it is a sensation. My reaction seems to have caught her attention.

I didn't lose my sense of hunger. I found ways to override it. Oh yes, irresponsibility and criminality because staying alive gets boring. The needles at least felt like something. And I was in charge of that something.

It's been at least a week since the juice incident. I won't be tempted again. I massage my scalp. Even with the conditioners my hair has turned brittle again. The human head sheds approximately 150 hairs each day. This isn't right. I need a distraction. Worrying won't do any good for me now. My vision blurs. The room around me is getting darker and shrinking. That is to day, I seem to be losing consciousness.

I seem to be conscious again. Eyes appear fully functional. I'm in a hospital bed. The heart rate monitor beeps. My ears are fine too. Mycroft is outside talking. I must have been in mortal peril if the British government got me here. There's an IV in my left arm of saline solution. There's another one that appears to be delivering a glucose solution. Dehydrated and low blood sugar then. That's all. I'm about to go about getting my things and a cab when Mycroft walks in, wrapped umbrella in hand.

"You can't keep doing this you know. It can take a while for us to review the footage to the point of interfering if need be"

"I know what happened." I say with some indignation.

"I don't doubt that, brother dear."

"Let me go home."

"Check your right arm."

I look. Needles have been there and not to administer glucose. A relapse then.

"Sherlock, this has got to stop. You're causing Mummy great distress."

"What are your terms?"

"You aren't going to be living alone anymore and you will be eating. I'm sure you understand. I'll send a car to bring you to 1 Nightingale place this evening."

"I'm not going there."

"Then get a flatmate."

"Who'd want me as a flatmate?"

John's been living here a week. I've been fine. His company isn't annoying as that of most people. I suppose I should talk to him about all of this before he gets attached.


End file.
